“Sure,” I say, watching that red-lipped smile spread over her face. “Hanson’s sounds good.”
The restaurant is quiet when we arrive as it’s still fairly early. There’s a small group of men in suits at the bar making their way through a bottle of whiskey, and Megan has the waiter wrapped around her finger before we’ve even sat down.
I order a good bottle of red, nottoogood, but nice enough, and we look over the menu.
Megan’s bright red nails look strange. I realize I’ve grown used to Amelia’s plain, slender fingers. I look at her hands for a little too long, and she catches me staring.
“Sinclair said I looked like a Christmas tree this morning,” she jokes, taking a sip of her water.
“Does he know where you are right now?” I ask as the waiter pours the wine.
“No. But then, he doesn’t need to know where I am every minute of the day. He’s not my keeper.”
What will Sinclair do if we end up fucking tonight?
It would be reckless on my part to attempt it. My family dynamic is strained enough without me adding that into the mix. But it’s tempting to get one over on him.
I place my menu down with a slap, ready to order, and Megan glances at me, her eyes narrowing.
“Are you in a hurry?” she asks, sounding intrigued. “I didn’t think that you’d have plans tonight.”
“What plans could Ipossiblyhave withoutyou, darling?” I ask mockingly.
“Well, exactly,” she replies, and I laugh as she bats her eyelashes at me. “You’re looking better than when I last saw you.” Her eyes move over my neck and down my chest. “New haircut?”
“New suit.”
And I’ve gotten laid more times than I care to count, which helps.
“Hm, it’s nice. One of Ellie’s?” she asks.
“Of course.”
“I miss her. I might go back and see if she has anything new for me.”
“I’m sure she’d love to see you.”
We go through the motions, Megan asking about my life, me asking about hers. It feels as if we’re gliding in a spiral downward, like she’s slowly leading me somewhere, but I’m not sure of the destination. Every time I take a sip of my wine, she tops up my glass.
As our food arrives, Megan picks up her fork, spinning it in her palm continually as she eats. It’s one of the things that used to irritate me most when we were together. Why she can’t put it down in between bites is beyond me.
“So, how’s the merger going?” she asks.
“Fine,” I say. “Things are moving forward.”
“Moving forward? Last I heard, it was a stalemate.”
“Well, Franklin is a pretty stubborn guy, but I’m wearing him down.”
“That’s good. Did you come to an agreement about his staff?”
“To an extent.”
She’s looking down at her food, and I watch her for a moment. She’s popping pieces of pasta into her mouth quickly and efficiently. It’s almost mechanical, like she’s on autopilot—and then it hits me.
She’s here to get the lowdown on my deal so she can pass it on to Sinclair. God, I’m such an idiot.
She takes her phone from her bag, scrolling through her messages with those claw-like nails.
